


Full Circle

by Apuzzlingprince



Series: Witcher Fanfics [17]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Crossdressing, Dubious Consent, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-18 17:03:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15490575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: When it comes time to take Ciri from Stygga Castle, Emhyr can’t bring himself to do it. But hecanbring himself to take Geralt.





	Full Circle

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read the books, watch out for spoilers, because this fic takes place immediately after the final book! Also, note: book descriptions/ages/etc are used in the fic.
> 
> Though I've chosen to use no warnings, you don't have to worry about there being rape or violence in the fic!

The terms of the exchange hadn’t been spoken aloud. The emperor had conveyed his desire in silence, with a pointed look and a gesture of his hand. It was Geralt’s mind that provided the words as he stepped forward, away from Ciri’s small, shaking hands and away from the trembling lips of his lover:

_Your life for hers._

Geralt moved without hesitation. There was nothing he wouldn’t have given for Ciri, no sacrifice too great. She had claimed his life the day they had met in Brokilon forest and giving it up now was simplicity itself.

He, unlike Emhyr, knew what it was to make sacrifices for those you loved.

As he followed Emhyr down to the gate, the only sounds were those of Ciri's sobs and the heavy winds that cut through the castle courtyard. Geralt allowed the silence to persist as he slid into the carriage after Emhyr. The cushions that met him were softer than any he had ever touched. They filled him with a vague sense of unease rather than comfort, like he was stepping into a rickety boat, but he did not indulge his instinct to flee; he simply dragged his gaze to the window and forced himself to watch Ciri’s and Yennefer’s drawn faces recede from view. It might very well be the last time he saw them.

It didn’t take long for Stygga castle to be swallowed up by the snowfall. The horses were galloping at breakneck speed. Even so, the journey to Nilfgaard promised to be a long one, and would be made even more so by having only an unsociable emperor for company. Geralt supposed being alone with Emhyr was something he should get used to. His future was now determined by the man and he didn’t expect it to be one shared with other people.

“I have left behind a few men to tend to the bodies,” said Emhyr, breaking the silence. “Your friends will be given proper burials.”

Geralt nodded. That knowledge brought him some relief. They deserved better than to rot among the bodies of Vilgefortz’s thugs.

“I know you have questions, Geralt,” continued Emhyr, folding his hands in his lap. “You may ask them. And I suggest you make haste, as I may not be so forthcoming later.”

Geralt wasn’t as curious as he ought to have been. More than anything, he was tired. The journey to Stygga castle had been a long and perilous one and it had not gone at all how he had hoped. Ciri might have been safe, but he had been unable to save anyone else, and the despair of loss and failure clung at the recesses of his mind. Not even Regis had lived through their encounter with Vilgefortz. 

_And leading the party is the Witcher, who suffers from pangs of conscience, impotence and the inability to take decisions-_

“What will I be doing in Nilfgaard, Duny?” he asked, speaking before he fell too deep into depression. The title dropped off his tongue with a well-deserved bitter note. 

“Your Imperial majesty, Geralt," said Emhyr. "Either use my title or don’t address me at all."

“Your _imperial_ _majesty_ ,” he corrected himself. 

Emhyr inclined his head in approval. “Upon our arrival in Nilfgaard, you will be appointed my primary courtesan, and you shall be given chambers next to mine. The marriage to the false Cirilla will proceed when she is of age, in a few months time, but it is you who shall warm my bed.”

“Your primary…” Geralt looked away, out the window. He hadn’t known what to expect when he followed Emhyr into the carriage. A wide variety of things had flittered through his mind, and somehow this – warming the Emperor’s bed – hadn’t been among them. He didn’t know what exactly to think of the role Emhyr had assigned him and nor did he have enough presence of mind to give it due scrutiny. He would think about it later. Later, when Vilgefortz’ life force wasn’t still drying on his face and hands, when he wasn’t still digging it out from under his nails.

“I believe this is a reasonable arrangement, given the sacrifice I have made today,” said Emhyr, seeming to interpret his silence as dismay. “Do not look so dour, Geralt: to lie with the Emperor is a privilege.”

“Right,” said Geralt, not because he agreed, but because the cumulative exhaustion of two years of struggling was bearing down on him. He was left too fatigued to offer up any kind of argument.

There was a short pause before Emhyr spoke again. “Geralt,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, more reminiscent of Duny than the Emperor of Nilfgaard. “Know that you will not be mistreated. You have been good to me and that is the least I owe you.”

“That hasn’t stopped you before," said Geralt. "Nor has it stopped you from harming _others_ more deserving of your care.”

Emhyr fell silent. Geralt could feel Emhyr's gaze boring into his back, but he didn’t turn around.

He closed his eyes and let the rhythmic thudding of the horses’ hooves draw him into slumber.

* * *

Emhyr gave him chambers that could have fit two stables within them. That was the first thing Geralt took note of; the second was that the walls were not yellow, as he had initially thought, but a brilliant gold that shimmered under the gentle light coming from a similarly opulent chandelier. When he stepped deeper into the room, he saw that floral patterns had been carefully traced into every inch of the paint by hand. The amount of time that must have gone into decorating the place was unfathomable. 

He looked to the furniture next, taking in an enormous four poster bed, then a dresser that almost spanned an entire wall, and finally a bookshelf so full of books that some had spilled out onto the floor. There were other items of furniture he had yet to take note of, but being exposed to this much luxury in one go dizzied Geralt and he had to seat himself on the edge of his bed, taking a moment to process that this, _this_ was where he lived now and where he would live for the conceivable future.

The Emperor stood in the chamber doorway, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Is this room to your liking?” he asked. “Another can be arranged, if not.”

“It’s… it’s fine,” he managed. “It’s just bigger than I’m used to.”

“I imagine the whole of Nilfgaard will be,” said Emhyr. "We build our structures quite a bit taller than ones found in the North."

Geralt glanced at the window. From what little he had seen of the city from beyond the carriage, it was indeed a city that reached for higher altitudes than most. Geralt was only now beginning to understand why Nilfgaard was called an Empire of the ‘Great Sun’ and why this city in particular was referred to as the ‘City of Golden Towers’.

“You will be permitted to leave the palace once you have been properly acculturated,” said Emhyr. “With a guard, of course.”

“Of course." Even without a guard, he wouldn’t have run. 

Emhyr stepped into the room. Geralt shoulders rose into a tense line.

He didn’t know if Emhyr wanted him now, while he still reeked of horse and leather and blood, but if he did, Geralt didn’t know if-

“Calm yourself, Geralt,” said Emhyr. “I’ve no interest in taking you at this moment.”

Geralt visibly relaxed.

“You have fresh clothes in the dresser.” Emhyr made a needless gesture to it. Geralt had to wonder just how uncultured Emhyr thought he was. “I expect you to bathe and choose an outfit before dinner. You will be called before sunset, so I suggest you take the opportunity to clean up _now_.”

Geralt knew a demand when he heard one.

He heaved himself off the bed, tearing at the clasps on his armour as he approached the dresser.

“Where’s the bathing chambers?” he asked.

“Down the hallway to your left. My chamberlain will arrive shortly to ensure you clean yourself adequately.”

“I know how to bathe,” said Geralt with reproach.

“Not to my standards, you don’t,” said Emhyr, and he turned and left the room without another word.

Geralt selected for himself an outfit consisting of a white shirt, a black pair of trousers, and a black jacket. He had tried for modest, but the ensemble still ended up being considerably more elegant than anything else Geralt had ever put on his body. None of the clothes Emhyr had provided him with could have passed as belonging to a civilian. 

He carried the clothes into the bathing chambers and placed them on the floor, out of reach of any water. There were three baths to choose from. He couldn’t discern how they were different other than size, so he slid into the smallest one and started to scrub himself clean, wiping away several weeks of accumulated filth. The blood Vilgefortz had splashed on him during his final moments flaked off and stained the water pink. It didn't take long for that colour to be taken over by the brown of dirt.

The hot water soothed the bruises on his back. He couldn’t see them, but he knew they must have become great smears of black and brown over the course of the journey to Nilfgaard. He had been slammed hard into the wall by Vilgefortz, hard enough that he still had a twinge in his lungs from how violently the air had been driven from them. It was going to take months for him to fully recover from Vilgefortz' assault.

He was in the process of raking the dirt out of his hair when Emhyr’s chamberlain arrived.

The man with his thoroughly worn, lined face certainly looked the part of an emperor’s chamberlain. He retrieved a comb from a nearby basket, along with a small vial, and handed both to Geralt.

“The gentleman will wash and comb his hair. Properly, if you please.”

Geralt attempted to do these things ‘properly’, as instructed, but the chamberlain didn’t seem to find his attempts sufficient and took over the task for him. He roughly combed the knots out Geralt's hair and scrubbed a sweet-smelling concoction into Geralt's scalp. Geralt had to squeeze his eyes shut to avoid getting bubbles in them.

“The gentleman will rinse," said the chamberlain. 

“Do you have a name?” he asked, since the man was working fast enough that he likely wouldn't have the opportunity ask for it later.

“If the Gentleman must know, it is Mererid,” said Mererid. “Now, the gentleman will rise. Promptly, please.”

Geralt dunked himself, giving himself a shake before turning to the chamberlain for further instruction. He’d splashed a considerable amount of water onto the man, he noted sheepishly.

“The gentleman will use the soap provided – yes, good. Until the skin is pink, if you would. There mustn’t be a hint of odour when it comes time for the gentleman to serve His Imperial Majesty.”

Having scrubbed as much as himself as he could reach, Mererid started on his back for him. The strength behind his scrubbing was enough to make even a man with Geralt’s pain tolerance wince.

“There,” he said once done, setting the soap and cloth aside. He handed Geralt yet another vial. The liquid was more viscous than the previous liquids, flowing over Geralt’s fingers more like honey than oil. It carried the scent of rose petals. Before Geralt could apply the sweet-smelling liquid to his skin, Mererid stopped him.

“The Gentleman is to use the concoction on his neither regions.”

“On my what now?”

Mererid cast him a dry look. “The gentleman is a courtesan. He is to make himself inviting for His Imperial Majesty, and the gentleman will not be inviting if he carries the traditional scents of ones genitals. If the gentleman needs further explanation-”

“No, I got it,” said Geralt, speaking hastily, his ears turning pink. “Do you _need_ to be in here while I do it? You have my sympathies, if so.”

“I will turn around, if the gentleman wishes.”

“The gentleman wishes that, yeah.”

Mererid turned. Geralt rose out of the water and braced his elbows on the edge of the bath, rubbing the concoction into the appropriate areas while making as little sound as possible. Doing this while someone else was in the room was supremely awkward and had his facial capillaries not been dulled by the mutation process, he probably would have turned bright red. Once he felt he was adequately covered, he stepped out of the tub and retrieved a towel, wrapping it tight around his waist. Mererid took that as his cue to turn back around.

“The gentleman will now be shaved. The gentleman will seat himself in the bergère.”

Geralt stared at him in utter incomprehension.

Mererid sighed, gesturing to a nearby chair. “In the… chair.”

That had to be the most pretentious name for a chair Geralt had ever heard.

He seated himself as instructed, folding his arms over the arm rests.

“Cledwyn!” called Mererid. Another man, just as harried looking as Mererid, entered the room. “Cledwyn, please shave the gentleman. Not an inch of hair is to be on his face.”

As Geralt wasn’t a fan of facial hair, he didn’t much mind having what little stubble had grown on his chin and jaw flicked away with a straight razor. The man was efficient. Within less than five minute, he had not a hint of wayward hair on his face.

“Now," said Mererid. "The gentleman’s legs, arms, and chest are to be-“

“My _what_ now?” interrupted Geralt. He expected he would be using that phrase a lot while getting used to life in the palace.

“To be shaven until soft and smooth, as befits a courtesan.”

Needless to say, Geralt wasn’t in the best mood when Cledwyn finally left the room, taking with him a significant amount of Geralt’s body hair. Considering it was white, barely visible from a distance, he thought it’s removal was unnecessary, but if that was what Emhyr wanted, that was what Emhyr got; Geralt didn’t have a choice in the matter.

Two girls were brought in next and they worked at his hands and feet until both the skin and nails resembled those of a nobles. Geralt had always valued good hygiene; it was why he loathed jobs that required him to go ploughing into filth, but the Nilfgaardian’s had cleanliness down to an art. He had never known one could feel so fresh.

The last thing he was instructed to do was brush his teeth, and he did so with some relief that _finally_ the bathing was over and he could get something in his stomach. Mererid pulled his hair into a tight ponytail before permitting him to leave. He headed for the dining hall with Mererid at his heels.

Geralt stuffed himself with roast beef and potatoes at the dinner table, much to Mererid’s distress. He paid little mind to Emhyr and outright ignored the False Ciri, who he didn’t look at for long for fear of seeing Ciri in her face. There was so much food on offer that it was easy enough to avoid conversation by sampling every dish. He expected he wouldn’t be able to do this every time he had to eat with Emhyr, but just the once was enough for now. He simply needed time to recover from the whiplash of his changing circumstances.

He was instructed to wear a dressing gown when it came time to sleep. He lay in bed, waiting and tense. The liquid from earlier tingled on his skin, but Emhyr did not come.

* * *

The False Ciri introduced herself as Cirilla Fiona. When asked for her birth name, she refused to provide it. Geralt called her Fiona, for he could not stand the thought of referring to her by Ciri’s name.

She did not look to Geralt much like Ciri, much to his relief. Her face was too peach-shaped and her lips too plump, her hair too gold and her eyes a shining olive green rather than the emerald of Ciri’s. She lacked Ciri’s facial scar and the flecks of white in her hair, and she lacked the faint, world-weary lines that had drilled themselves into Ciri’s brow and either side of her mouth over the course of two terrible years. She didn’t look at all like Ciri, and Geralt was glad.

They developed an amicable relationship despite the fact Geralt was to warm Emhyr’s bed in her stead. In fact, she expressed some relief at avoiding that responsibility. Not out loud, of course; only in the slight smoothing of her features when he told her for what purpose he had been brought to the palace. She would not openly insult her Emperor by suggesting he wasn’t an appealing bed partner.

Emhyr was busy running his kingdom, and so Geralt found himself in the company of Fiona more often than the person he was meant to be serving. They passed the days with board games and idle conversation. The girl became a quick friend and having her there to keep him distracted made the days waiting for Emhyr to call on him for service easier to tolerate.

If there was one thing Fiona did have in common with Ciri, it was her sprightliness and cheek – provided one could draw it out of her, that was. It had to be drawn out, for much of her former personality had been smothered when she had been taught to take on the role of Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon. She only knew how to act like the child she was when she was too happy to remember to play her role.

Geralt neglected to mention that the real Ciri was alive, and nor did he reveal how exactly he had found out about Fiona’s true identity. Fortunately, she didn’t ask him many questions. Excessive questioning (which in Stella’s opinion was more than two questions per conversation) wasn’t permitted by etiquette.

Palace life was not unpleasant by any stretch of the imagination. Fiona kept him occupied, which was nice, but having three square meals a day and a warm bed was the most damningly easy thing to get used to. He missed his family more every day, but he didn’t miss the hunger pangs or the cold or the pervasive filth that had followed him throughout his time as a vagabond. 

The palace was comfortable, even if it would never be a home to him without Ciri and Yennefer.

Though he wasn’t yet allowed to leave, he got a look at the City of Nilfgaard through his chamber window. It was an impressive sight. Much like Toussaint, it was a huge city, stretching on beyond what the eye could see, with thousands of little buildings sitting side by side and forming streets. Many of the buildings stretched up into the sky, so high that Geralt had to stick his head out a window to view the very top of them. It was a pretty city, picturesque, and Geralt always found a new feature to appreciate each time he gazed over it. It would have been nice to visit it as a guest rather than a prisoner.

* * *

It was a month after his arrival at Nilfgaard that Emhyr finally came to him. Running a kingdom at war demanded almost all Emhyr's time, and what little time he did have to spare generally wasn’t used to indulge in vices. Tonight, however, he saw fit to call on Geralt's services.

Emhyr entered the room and approached the bed. He walked with his head held high and his back straight. Even in this context, he looked every part the regal Emperor that he was.

“Have you been enjoying the palace?” Emhyr asked, coming to stand at his side. He looked almost like a ghost as he stood over Geralt, his skin a waxy white.

Geralt pulled himself up onto his elbows before he replied. “Didn’t think you were here to make small talk.”

“I’m not, but there’s no harm in it. I wish to know how you have been enjoying my palace.”

“I’m enjoying it as much as anyone can enjoy imprisonment.”

“Voluntary.” Emhyr placed a small flask of oil on the nightstand. “Voluntary imprisonment, Geralt. Remember that.”

“I do, Duny.”

Emhyr reached for the hem of his gown and divested it in one pull of his hand. Geralt followed suit, tugging his own nightwear over his head and throwing it aside. Once they were both seated comfortably on the bed, Emhyr gestured to the oil, and Geralt took it without preamble. He didn't want to think too hard about what he was doing.

“Why aren’t I in the dungeons?” he asked as he uncorked the flask. “I’m collateral, or so I assume. Seems like a risk to keep me out in the open.”

“If you would prefer the dungeons, it can be arranged," said Emhyr. "But I feel my chances of keeping you here are greater while you are living comfortably. And, in any case, to have sex in a _dungeon_ is beneath an Emperor.”

Geralt gave the oil a sniff. It was scented with rose, just like the gel he used while bathing. He took a deep breath and lay back in bed, waiting. The emperor appeared to be waiting too, but for what exactly, Geralt wasn’t sure.

“Traditionally,” said Emhyr after a considerable silence. “A courtesan prepares themselves when given a flask of oil. Between your legs, if I need to be specific.”

A little flustered, Geralt spilled just as much oil on his stomach as he did his fingers, then dropped his hand between his legs, reaching for his entrance. He closed his eyes and tried very hard to pretend the Emperor wasn’t staring at him as he slid a finger into himself. His walls were resisting. It was hard to relax while under scrutiny.

Emhyr released one long, heavy breath. He’d barely started and he could already smell the arousal on Emhyr.

“How long?” he choked out, cracking open one eye to look blearily up at Emhyr.

“I beg your pardon?”

“How long have you been thinking about this?”

Emhyr reached over and slid a hand up Geralt’s calf, coming to stop at his inner thigh. He watched Geralt work a finger into himself with interest. “A long time, Geralt. A very long time.”

“Pavetta-“ Geralt started.

“Was a kind, warm-hearted woman, and I do in fact wish I could have reciprocated her passion, despite what you may think.” Emhyr brushed a thumb up the underside of Geralt's cock. Geralt shuddered at the slight contact. “I’ve little interest in women, in truth. But certain sacrifices must be made for the prosperity of my people.”

“You have better options than me,” muttered Geralt, sliding in an additional finger. The stretch made his breath hitch. It wasn’t unpleasant; it was the opposite of that, and he hadn’t been expecting it. He had to bite his lip to stop himself from making embarrassing little sounds.

“Do you presume I will deny it?" asked Emhyr. A rhetorical question. "No, it is true; I could have anyone I desire, and they would be preferable on the sole basis of reciprocation.” Emhyr slid further onto the bed, positioning himself between Geralt’s legs. He placed his hands on either of Geralt's knees and watched Geralt’s fingers work their way in, a small smile playing on his lips. “But there is no one I desire except you and no one I have ever desired so strongly, much to both our dismay, I imagine.”

Geralt said nothing, at a loss for words. There had been nothing profound in the confession, no claims of great love or passion; nothing that could be mistaken for warmth, but Geralt had still not expected such a thing to be said by a man like Emhyr, by the White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of his Enemies. There was a coldness to Emhyr that suggested he was beyond such trivialities as desire and love. Evidently that wasn’t the case.

“I exchanged the welfare of the world for you,” said Emhyr, leaning his face into Geralt’s leg, his breath playing on the pale stretch of skin by his lips. “You had best make yourself a worthy prize for me.”

Geralt withdrew his fingers, folding a forearm over his face. He didn’t want Emhyr to see the emotions playing there. “Then hurry up and take me before I decide I hate you for this.”

“I’ll make sure you don’t.” Emhyr coiled a hand around Geralt’s cock, giving it one long, hard stroke that left Geralt quivering. “Pleasure can work wonders on a relationship.”

* * *

Emhyr came to him whenever he had time to spare, and Geralt gradually got used to the sex. Enjoyed it, even. He didn’t think of Yennefer as he had with Fringilla, as Emhyr being a man would have made it impossible to maintain that illusion. He still loved Yennefer deeply and wholly, but he had come to terms with his new life and with the fact he was unlikely to see Yennefer ever again, much less be in a relationship with her. After Fringilla, he didn’t even know if she would have wanted to be in one. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she didn’t.

The most striking thing about the sex with Emhyr was how Emhyr concerned himself with Geralt’s pleasure. It was all about him, about how he felt, rather than Emhyr simply reaping the reward for his victory. It was never painful or thoughtless; he was always left breathless and warm and satiated, and there were times he found himself nursing disappointment when Emhyr only stepped into his chambers for a conversation or a game of chess.

Emhyr was not a man who communicated feelings well, and so he relied upon intimacy to convey himself. And Geralt understood what he was trying to say. He knew _why_ Emhyr treated him like a precious thing. Even the most dimwitted of people would have understood what he meant when he stroked Geralt’s hair and pressed warm, open-mouthed kisses to his brow.

He would never hear Emhyr say aloud how he felt, but that was fine; preferable, in fact, because Geralt was only moderately better at dealing with such announcements than Emhyr presumably was.

The way things were was agreeable.

They became even more so when Emhyr finally decided to let him venture beyond the palace. Guards followed at his heels, but that was fine; they were more like gargoyles than people anyway, and that made them easy to get used to. He would walk around the city for a few hours every evening, exploring curious nooks and crannies and enjoying the incredible Nilfgaardian architecture, and return to the palace just in time for dinner. There was always something new to see. The culture was so different to the North that Geralt could have observed the daily machinations of the Nilfgaardian’s all day. They were much more pleasant when they weren’t being viewed from across a battlefield.

Once certain Geralt had settled into palace life, Emhyr started gifting him things. Mostly clothes and trinkets of gold and silver. Geralt had little use for them, so he stowed most of them away, out of sight, but he put a few of the prettier trinkets on his shelves. His favourite was a solid gold statue of an owl, which glistened prettily under candlelight. The first time he gazed at the owl sitting on his bedside table was the first time the chambers felt less like a guest room and more like they belonged to him.

With each passing day, the nights in the palace got easier to sleep through. His nightmares waned, and slowly but surely, so did his desperate longing to see Ciri and Yennefer again. 

* * *

On the rare occasion, Emhyr would use what little free time he had to take Geralt beyond the palace. The locations they visited had one feature in common: they were quiet, and Emhyr must have _paid_ for them to be, because they were the sort of places one would expect to be bustling and noisy. Emhyr favoured restaurants, gardens and theatres, but sometimes he would bring Geralt to less opulent places, such as zoos and wineries. Geralt especially enjoyed the wineries.

Being taken out enabled Geralt to forget his situation for a little while. Within a few glasses of wine, he was warm and happy and regaling Emhyr with tales of his work. He was surprised by how raptly Emhyr listened to him. Most people thought very little of witcher’s and paid little mind when witcher's spoke of their profession, but Emhyr listened to him talk as though being a witcher was a job worthy of respect. It was nice. 

He wasn’t unpleasant company. Quite the contrary, in fact. Emhyr was intelligent, well-spoken, and had plenty of his own stories to tell when Geralt tired of talking about himself. He seemed increasingly more human to Geralt, rather than a figurehead or a warden, and Geralt concluded after a few months of being in Emhyr’s company that he kind of, just a _little_ bit, liked the man. Under different circumstances, perhaps he would have voluntarily visited Emhyr at the palace.

He offhandedly mentioned as much after a night good drink and good food and the way Emhyr looked at him, with something like longing, made his gut twist into knots. He hadn’t felt much like drinking or eating after that.

Emhyr’s tendency not to speak his mind led Geralt to forgetting just how deeply the man coveted him. He couldn’t figure out his own feelings in that regard either, whether he felt sympathy or guilt over his lack of reciprocation. Geralt never had been very good with emotions. There were times in his life he had convinced himself that he didn’t _have_ any, not really, which was testament to how poor his understanding of his own emotions was. It ultimately didn’t matter, though; he would have a long time during which to figure out what exactly Emhyr elicited in him.

* * *

After riding out into Nilfgaard the first few times, Emhyr insisted upon teaching Geralt the proper way to ride a horse. He could have elected a trainer to do it; Emhyr, however, felt that the only one who could properly curb an unruly witcher's ‘appalling posture’ was an emperor. Geralt didn’t think himself that bad a rider. In fact, considering how often travel by horse was required in his profession, he thought himself quite a capable one.

Emhyr disagreed, _strongly_ , and Geralt gathered after the first lesson that the issue lay in _presentation_. He did not hold himself as befitted a consort, apparently. As 'consort' was basically just a kinder word for whore, Geralt thought that a right laugh, but he didn’t complain. The lessons weren’t unpleasant. He enjoyed the familiarity of being seated upon an equine.

“Your back isn’t straight, Geralt,” said Emhyr from the ground, looking unduly cross at Geralt’s slouched shoulders. He tapped the small of Geralt’s back with a riding crop.

Geralt straightened his spine. “More comfortable that way.”

“Perhaps, but you look a right fool.” Emhyr watched him carefully while he trotted around the pen. “A little straighter, Geralt.”

Geralt cast him a scowl. “Shove a stake up my ass and be done with it, because this is a straight as I can get.”

“A stake up your…” Emhyr looked mildly amused. “I’ll take that suggestion into consideration.”

“The emperor has a sense of humour now, does he?” Geralt slowed as he approached Emhyr. “Don’t let the people know. The might actually start to think you’re human.”

“We can’t have that,” said Emhyr wryly.

“Imagine if they knew you had to relieve yourself like any other man. It’d be cause for riots,” said Geralt, shaking his head. “Madness in the streets.”

Emhyr made a small noise, like a soft, strangled laugh, and Geralt felt oddly accomplished.

Once he was close enough, Emhyr gave Geralt’s back another tap with the crop, just hard enough to drive away any lingering droopiness. In retaliation, Geralt sent the horse into a gallop, kicking dirt into Emhyr’s finely laundered outfit. The man spluttered in a manner most unbecoming for an emperor. “Witcher!”

A grin turned the corners of Geralt’s mouth. He glanced over his shoulder at Emhyr. “Yes, your Imperial Majesty?”

“I suggest you return,” said Emhyr. Threateningly, but not in a sincere fashion. “Before I have my men gather you for me.”

Geralt shrugged and did as he was told. He hadn’t any complaints when Emhyr dragged him back into the palace and decided to give Geralt a hands-on demonstration on the  _other_  ways a riding crop could be used, because those uses turned out to be surprisingly pleasurable.

* * *

The day the Emperor married Fiona, Geralt was given the impression he would have much rather married Geralt. There was not a hint of pleasure on his face as he spoke his vows. He didn’t even attempt to look the part of a besotted groom, and only displayed a hint of a smile when he spotted Geralt lingering by the seafood platter. The other attendants must have thought it was for Fiona, as they smiled in turn.

He found Geralt the moment he was free to do so and pushed him up against a wall, his hands sliding beneath the soft, velvety material of Geralt’s dress shirt. He touched every inch of Geralt’s chest before turning Geralt around and removing the barrier between him and Geralt’s ample buttocks. When he slid into Geralt, it was smooth, easy, like sliding one’s keys into a lock. He didn’t even need to wait for Geralt to adjust before beginning to thrust. Geralt had long since become used to the significant girth of his cock.

“Had I been able to get away with taking you before that crowd,” he breathed against the shell of Geralt’s ear. “I would have, without a moments hesitation. But some things must be approached with discretion, unfortunately.”

Dizzied as he was by the blood flooding into his cock, Geralt wasn’t able to voice a reply. Emhyr had become so practised at hitting some deep, pleasurable place inside of him that it didn’t take him long at all to render Geralt incoherent.

He came fast, with Emhyr milking him until he was shivering and empty. Emhyr wiped the ejaculation off with a handkerchief and did up Geralt’s trousers for him, burying his face briefly into Geralt’s hair before parting their bodies. He always looked more at ease after fucking Geralt, the tight line of his shoulders drooping perceptively and the dents on his face softening.

“I must return to the festivities,” he said, folding his hands behind his back, with not a hair out of place. His poise put Geralt to shame, who always looked every part a man who had just been fucked after sex. “But I expect you at my chambers tonight. The marriage must be consummated.”

Geralt cast him a wry smile. “Shall I put on the wedding gown before your arrival?”

“A wonderful idea.” Emhyr turned to leave. “I’ll have Mererid arrange it. Until tonight, Geralt.”

And that was how Geralt ended up draped over the end of his bed with the gown skirts bunched up around his waist. Considering it wasn’t their marriage that was being consummated, Emhyr was surprisingly passionate, going for far longer than he normally would, and pushing Geralt to his limit as well. He saw flashes of brilliant white, followed by the heavy black of completion. It was a very long time before Geralt was able to peel his eyes back open and get a look at Emhyr.

The man lay draped over his chest, his hair a mess, his eyelids lowered. He took fast, shallow breaths against Geralt’s clavicle and had managed to wind his arms tight around Geralt’s waist without Geralt noticing. He did not give even a little as Geralt shifted to make himself more comfortable.

Seeing as he wouldn’t be able to move without jostling Emhyr, Geralt settled in for the night. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d slept in an awkward position courtesy of Emhyr. While the man wasn’t one to cuddle, he did have the tendency to hold Geralt after sex as though he believed Geralt would slip away if he didn’t.

“Geralt,” said Emhyr quietly, after a long silence. He was still panting. “This marriage means nothing.”

“I know.”

“Nothing at all,” he continued, disregarding Geralt’s comment. He brought a hand up to his lips and coughed lightly into a palm. “Would you accept those vows? The ones she spoke?”

“I imagine I wouldn't have much choice in the matter.”

A grimace crossed Emhyr’s features. He brought his hand to Geralt’s shoulder, coiling his fingers lightly around it. “I permit you to lie to me.”

“I..." Geralt looked away guiltily. "Maybe I would accept them, given time. I don't need to lie.”

“Then would you speak the vows for me? I wish to hear them.”

Geralt frowned. "Really?"

"Please."

Geralt blinked at him. A 'please' from the emperor. He was sure few people ever heard such a thing.

After a moments hesitation, he obliged. “I will stay with you, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish.”

The distress on Emhyr’s face eased. “Until death do us part,” he finished, lying his head back upon Geralt’s chest. His fingers grazed a nipple. “Emperors are just men, Geralt. Men like any other, and we need to hear such things just as much as any other man.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed,” he said, and spoke no more.

Geralt ran a hand idly down Emhyr's back as Emhyr slept. His skin was already turning cold.

* * *

The days following the marriage grew busy. Emhyr was only able to see Geralt sporadically and he looked more fatigued each time he did. Training his new wife to be empress drained his energy, and in combination with running the country, he had barely any to spare on Geralt. He did manage to drag himself to Geralt’s chambers on the odd occasion, but it became more common for them to play chess than have sex. He was generally too tired for anything more strenuous.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” he told Geralt after an embarrassingly short game of chess, his head nodding against his clavicle. “I can’t play up to par, currently. I’ve not had good sleep in several weeks.”

“It’s fine,” said Geralt, moving to reset the board. Emhyr stopped him by placing a hand over his.

“We will try again another time,” said Emhyr. “I must grab some slumber while I am able.”

“You didn’t need to play a game on my account,” said Geralt, surprised by the genuine concern that created in him.

“I wished to.” Emhyr offered Geralt a small, tight smile before standing and vacating the room.

Geralt watched him go, taking note of the slump in his shoulders and the slowness of his gait. He didn’t enjoy seeing such a proud man so fatigued. There was something unsettling about it.

With no one else to play chess with, Geralt attempted a few games against himself before boredom compelled him to stop. He was often bored, these days. Both Emhyr and Fiona were too busy to keep him company and so he was left to pass the time with solitary activities. He didn’t even have Roach to talk to anymore. He missed his horse. She might not have been able to talk, but she had always been a good listener. Just having a living creature to narrate things to made one feel significantly less lonesome.

He had tried to initiate conversation with the palace staff, but as they were often busy, and had the same preconceptions about Witcher’s as your average Northerner (one of the few things they could agree on, apparently), he never got far with his attempts. He had guards posted outside his chamber at all times, but they held the same attitudes as other staff and would behave surly when Geralt tried to engage them in conversation. The fact they assumed him to be a Rivian on top of being a witcher certainly didn’t help. Most people didn’t have high opinions of Rivian’s.

The palace was constantly full to the brim with people, and yet Geralt couldn’t have been lonelier. He even considered asking for a dog, just to have someone to wake up to in the morning, but he suspected it wasn’t something Emhyr would permit. 

He never had been very good at dealing with being alone. He always preferred to travel with someone – with Dandelion, or Yennefer, or Vesemir, or anyone else who would agree to ride at his side. He vaguely remembered being like that as a toddler, trailing after his mother’s skirts like a duckling. Kaer Morhen hadn’t managed to drive his need for companionship out of him. They had certainly tried, but Geralt had still grown up a little boy who liked to sneak into other people’s beds and follow Vesemir around the keep. There were some things witcher training just couldn’t smother.

He was actually starting to miss having Emhyr around. That might have been the boredom talking, though.

* * *

Fiona came by his room during one of the quieter evenings. They hadn’t seen each other in a long while. Mere months had passed, but already she had the appearance of someone aged beyond their years, tension lines drawn into her fine skin. They were visible even through the concealer. Preparing to be empress must have been as taxing on her as it was on Emhyr, which was to be expected, because preparing to be empress with no prior training was no easy feat.

“I’m… I’m sorry I haven’t been able to drop by lately.” She seated herself at his table, waiting for him to select a game for them to play. “Preparations have been occupying my days. I barely have the time to eat.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Geralt, inclining his head in sympathy. She was undergoing an inordinate amount of stress for a teenage girl.

While Fiona made herself comfortable, he retrieved a dice board from the bottom-most shelf on his bookcase. It’d been a while since he’d played dice. The only game Emhyr had any experience in was chess and he wasn’t interested in expanding his horizons.

He brought the board to the table and laid it out, handing Fiona five dice.

Fiona sighed. “There’s so much to learn, and so little time in which to learn it.” She cupped her dice in hand, waiting for her turn. “Worrying as I am, I am not getting good sleep. I fear I will not be a good empress to the people of Nilfgaard, so limited as my experience is.”

“Shouldn’t you be given more time to prepare?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. “You’ve only just married. You aren’t expected to act as the empress just yet, surely?”

She shook her head, her fine blonde hair swaying. “In a few months, I will undergo the coronation. Then I will officially be empress.”

“Didn’t expect it to be for at least a few years.” Geralt gave his dice a shake and let them scatter across the board. No doubles. A very bad hand. He frowned and retrieved them so Fiona could take her turn.

“It should be, but- but Em…” She trailed off, swallowing. “His imperial Majesty doesn't wish to be emperor any longer. He's retiring early.”

“Why? He’s not that old.” Being in his sixties, Geralt was at least a decade older than him. Granted, witchers outlived the average human by several centuries, so he hadn’t a good gauge on when retirement age should reasonably be.

“Well, I think he wants to enjoy retirement while he can.” She threw her dice onto the board. One double. Only a moderately better hand than his. “He only has so much time left, you know.”

Geralt stared hard at his dice. He was suddenly having difficulty focusing. “I _don't_ know," he said. "What do you mean?” He tried not to think about Emhyr’s waxen skin and the shallow breaths he had taken on the night of the marriage and most of all

_To death do us part._

“Geralt,” said Fiona. “His Imperial Majesty is not well.”

Geralt swallowed. “How unwell is he?”

“He’s going to die, Geralt. Soon.”

Geralt withdrew his hand from the dice. He didn’t much feel like playing anymore.

How had he not realised? How, when it seemed so obvious to him now? He felt a right fool. He’d let Emhyr deceive him yet again.

“Did he not tell you?” asked Fiona, her voice soft, and Geralt wanted to snap at her, tell her of course he didn’t know, why else would he be so surprised? But he bit back the urge to wallow in his anger and shook his head. She had done nothing to earn his ire.

“He didn’t say a damn thing.”

“Are you two close?” asked Ciri - no, Fiona, because Ciri never spoke that softly and uncertainly.

“I don’t know,” said Geralt honestly. Whatever they were, the announcement sent his blood alternating between hot and cold, roiling under his skin. There were few people who deserved his distress less than the Emperor of Nilfgaard, who had thus far been a plague upon his life, and yet he could not shake the horrible, bone-deep anxiety that filled him when it settled into his mind that Emhyr was going to _die_. 

He rose from his chair.

“Where is D-?” He paused, gathered himself. “Emhyr. Where is Emhyr?”

Fiona dropped her gaze. “His office,” she said.

“I won’t tell him you sent me.”

“He will know,” said Fiona, bowing her head. “But he will understand. He’s… he’s not a bad man, Geralt.”

Geralt didn’t reply. He left Fiona sitting at his table and headed through the palace as fast as a steady walk could carry him. One did not run in the palace, and he might have come to like Emhyr, to care about him, but he still had his dignity. He would not act harried when the emperor had not deigned to tell Geralt he was no well.

There were people in Emhyr’s office, so many in fact that Geralt had to shoulder through them in order to reach Emhyr's desk. There were so many variations of ‘how dare you’ in the air that it might have been comical under different circumstances.

Emhyr took one look at his face and made a dismissing motion with his hand. “All but the witcher,” he said, and his subjects filed out obligingly.

They had barely shut the door behind them before Geralt began speaking “Were you going to mention your illness at any point?” he asked, and each word came out with audible anger – more than he had intended. He congratulated himself on keeping his hands still, at least. They neither shook nor turned white-knuckled.

Emhyr’s reply was frustratingly calm: “You spoke to Cirilla, I gather.”

“It doesn’t matter who I received the news from,” said Geralt coolly. “Only that you neglected to tell me. For what reason, exactly? Were you that desperate to get in one last deception before your death?”

“I did not wish it to be part of our… relations,” said Emhyr. “That is all. A simple, dying man’s desire. Is that so unreasonable?”

“It is when you cajole me into giving a shit about you.” Geralt couldn’t stop himself from pacing. “Assuming that survives this conversation.”

Emhyr’s mouth pinched. “You are entitled to your feelings. I will not deny you them.”

“Would you stop being so damned _calm_ for a minute?" he asked, a growl behind his voice. "It’s bothersome.”

“Would you like me to cry? Plead for forgiveness?”

“Either of those would be preferable.”

Emhry ran a hand up through his perfectly combed hair and stood out of his chair. “Then, for what it is worth,” he said, approaching Geralt. “I am sorry.”

Geralt flinched as Emhyr laid a hand upon his forearm. He might have twisted out from under it, except Emhyr brought his other hand to the nape of his neck and stroked it. “I am sorry for the pain I have caused you. For all of it.”

Geralt took shallow breaths. He was still angry, but he softened under Emhyr’s fingers all the same and greeted Emhyr’s mouth with parted lips. The kiss was soft and unhurried, and it made Geralt’s heart thud uncomfortably against his rib cage.

“You’ve lost so much, witcher,” said Emhyr softly. “I regret that I have added to your grief."

“Then why do this?” he strangled out.

“For selfish reasons; I will not pretend otherwise.” Emhyr drew him closer, his cool skin pressing a chill into Geralt. It was only now, listening closer, that he heard the whistle in Emhyr's every breath and the creak in his bones. “If I could not fulfil the terms of the prophecy, then I at least wished to be happy in my final moments, with the witcher I have coveted for many a year.” He pressed his nose to Geralt’s neck, breathing in deep. His hair tickled Geralt's shoulder. “Do not hate me, Geralt. Do not leave me. I could not stand it.”

Geralt slowly unfurled his fingers, taking deep, even breaths. “How much longer?” he asked.

“Months.” He felt Emhyr’s throat bob. “The mages tell me I will asphyxiate in my sleep. There will come a time they are no longer able to keep my lungs functioning.”

Geralt didn’t ask Emhyr what the illness was, nor how he had managed to live with it for so long. He didn’t want to know. Answers to such questions wouldn’t bring him any reprieve.

“Alright, Duny,” he said, sounding so very tired, so very defeated. “I will stay.”

“Thank you,” murmured Emhyr, and he came undone against Geralt, trembling under his hands. All men, it seemed, feared death. Even emperors.

* * *

To call the funeral beautiful would have been a terrible understatement. A long, gold-threaded carpet had been rolled into the graveyard and Nilfgaardian flags erected on either side of it. They fluttered gently in the wind, their gold suns gleaming and lighting up the emperors intricately decorated casket as it passed. The resting place itself was a crypt of marble that was so smooth and new and white that it appeared to glow under the sunlight.

Geralt didn’t stay long. Just enough to recognise that he didn’t want to be there before he headed for the stables. He had to push himself past hundreds, perhaps even thousands of grieving Nilfgaardian’s as he fled, his head bowed low so he didn’t have to see their pink, snot-smeared faces. The sound was terrible. The Nilfgaardian’s were such a dignified people that he hadn't expected the wailing, but it was there, distant and choked. 

He had been given his pardon the day Emhyr had passed. But Emhyr had asked him to stay until the bitter end, and so he had.

He threw his saddlebags over a black horse – one he had picked out for himself, courtesy of Emhyr – and tried to will the tremble out of his fingers by squeezing his hands into fists. It didn’t work.

Mererid handed him a roll of parchment before he could flee the city. “Show this to a city guard and the gentleman will be free to go wherever he pleases,” said the man, polite as ever, even under current circumstances. “As per the emperor’s request, the gentleman will also be welcomed back, should he return.”

Geralt stowed the parchment in a pouch. “Don’t think I’ll take him up on that," he said.

Mererid inclined his head in passive acceptance. “I wish the gentleman a safe trip.”

“Thank you, Mererid,” said Geralt, retrieving his reins.

He rode out of the city at a trot, and not once did he look back. In his bag, the golden owl that he so liked thumped against his thigh, cold despite the sunny day.


End file.
